Last night after I helped close at the bookstore, I went to The Winchester, the best little bar in Somerville (aka my friend David's house). I had a couple of cocktails, watched silly videos, danced around, debated current cinema, and talked about boys. I left with a CD (The Power of Pussy) and DVD (9 Dead Gay Guys, which according to the New York Times is "frenzied tastelessness") on loan, as well as some homemade raspberry jam.
This morning I've been drinking coffee, reading a book, and watching the woodpecker rapping away at the dead branch on the tree in front of my house. A jet just flew by overhead, a throaty scream from the sky, and I watched the specks up in the atmosphere until I saw stars and felt dizzy with fear. It shattered my calm. Hopefully I'll reclaim it. It's a beautiful day.
My roommate was playing some music the other night, some very danceable disco music, and so I danced about for a bit, as I do.
Then he switched to hip-hop. I stopped. "I don't dance to hip-hop." Because I don't. I like hip-hop (well, some of it, as with any other genre), but it doesn't speak to that ass-shakin' part of my brain the way, I don't know...New Wave, disco, electro-punk, '80s pop, oontzoontz, etc. do.
"Oost ooch? What's that?"
"Oontzoontz, you know, like techno music."
"Oooh. Gotcha."
"I actually used to go to a lot of raves, once upon a time."
"You did? Really?"
"Yup, really."
"Wow. Do you have, like, a drawer full of glowsticks and E?"
Which made me laugh and laugh, long and loud.
Who wants to go see Yo La Tengo this Thursday? Avalon, doors at 8, tickets $25 (with all of the Ticketbastard charges).
I walked down the sidewalk, languorous, acorns crunching under my feet.
The music played in my ears. Little girls with shining hair shrieked. The wind swept along, stirring the dried leaves, and a dog ran in circles, stick in its mouth, tail wagging.
All a part of me, though I'm not a part of them.
Face serene, eyes soft, shoulders back, walking.
And you won't have to be so sad.
But I will, I know it, but knowing it doesn't make me so sad. Not anymore.
Dear Sirs and Madams:
I am not sending you spam. Someone has harvested my domain name and is using it as a return address for their demonic crap emails.
Though I wish I could do something about it, I can't. This is unfortunate, because I get all of the bounced emails, which is annoying, and I also get emails from irritated people along the lines of this:
who the hell are you, what the hell is this, and why the hell are you sending it to me?
Get a good spam filter, and understand that the return address on an email is not necessarily an indicator of its origin.
Best wishes,
thevieve
I have a lot of dreams about airplanes. Airplanes out of control, swooping and diving around dangerous obstacles. Airplanes that are late, or hard to find at a confusing, enormous airport. Airplanes that can't take off from a teeny, hilly runway. Dangerous machines that take me somewhere, conveyances I can't control. Hurtling through the sky, going somewhere quickly, and I have little power over that somewhere, or that somewhen.
I was listening to Yo La Tengo's "Don't Have to Be Sad" this morning, and I think it's one of the most beautiful songs ever.
I wanted to feel that way forever
And that's why
If you're looking at me I'll try to be what you want to see
and if I'm, if I'm, ever that lucky
You won't have to be so, You won't have to be so sad
You won't have to be so sad.
Tylenol PM is my new best friend. I slept a good 8+ hours last night, mostly uninterrupted, and my brain seems to be working better now. I'm a little groggy, and my eyes are hideously puffy, but... Whew.
Last night at work, I saw John Malcovich, who comes in to get coffee sometimes. He didn't smile and seemed a little grey and gloomy, but he did say "Hello," and he sounded just like John Malcovich. Which seems like a silly observation, but gave me a little thrill.
I also had a nice long chat with the film critic at the Weekly Dig, David Wildman. He's interviewing Augusten Burroughs sometime soon, and so he bought a copy of Running With Scissors, which I read a while ago and liked quite a bit. I have a sneaking suspicion that Augusten Burroughs might be an asshole, though, and told him so. "Oh, I'm used to interviewing assholes. Did you see the one with Harrison Ford?"
I am newly slightly obsessed with a Seattle band called The Trucks. Think Peaches combined with Bikini Kill/Le Tigre.
What makes you think we can fuck
Just because you put your tongue in my mouth
And you're twisting my titties, baby?
I've been in therapy for five years
I'll be in therapy for five years more.
I like it, I love it, I like it, I love it.
My two favorite things in life
Are big afros and riding bikes!
With you!
Yeah, sex, shrinks, bikes, and afros. Rock.
I need a damn belt.
I need more sleep.
I need to eat better.
Right now, I need coffee.
I have a lot of needs.
Bikini Kill, The Singles.
Fo' sho.
There is a gulf between your head and your heart, but you now have tools at your disposal to smooth out these differences. No one said this was going to be easy, but it does seem to be lightening up enough for you to feel good about the very same things that were overwhelming you just last week. Take advantage of your newfound confidence to overcome your fear of failure.
Are you voting in the Massachusetts primary today? I am. You should, too.
Find your election information here.
I was a work the other day, and I was chatting with someone about food and whether I eat meat. You know, as you do.
I said yes, I do eat meat, but not all that much, partly because so many of my friends are vegetarians.
"You look like you'd have a lot of vegetarian friends," she said.
I'm not exactly sure what that means, but I still found it kind of funny.
Drink beers on the porch and hang out with a gaggle of B-school students (who are pretty awesome when they're not talking about schooly stuff).
Go to a flea market and buy cheap sunglasses and gawk at a penis-shaped pacifier and flip through old records and paw through rhinestone-studded accessories.
Eat a delicious Turkey Lurkey sandwich and salad and some french fries and drink a couple of good beers on a lovely restaurant patio and pay only $20 (including tip) for everything.
Go to a fancy brunch and pay only $24 for everything (mimosa and tip included).
Visit the National Aviary and 1) try not to get pooped on and 2) let African birds eat worms and grapes out of your hand.
Sit in the park and watch a bunch of happy dogs playing and one very happy dog in particular repeatedly try to hump Ginger, an overweight Brittany Spaniel.
Shop at a succession of ghetto grocery stores and for some reason experience incredible cravings for strange junk food. ("Crunch 'n Munch! I haven't had that for AGES!")
Drive through the cemetery and get creeped out by the cave that's tucked into the hillside and gaze at the amazing (and amazingly still intact) stained glass on the doors of the fancy crypts.
Write this while delicious smells waft out from the kitchen. (Mmm, spicy shrimp creole.)
I'm working on a book about "drug math" (how to figure out dosages). And I keep getting to this section:
"Suppose the physician gives you an order for a rectal suppository. You will calculate the appropriate amount in the same manner as you would a tablet. There the similarity ends; the suppository will be administered rectally."
And I start giggling, and I have to stop and think about why I find that so damn funny.
Favorite search term of the month: inflate my labia.
I'm off to Pittsburgh today for a visit with the poopyhead. I saw her last in January, which is far too long. (Though I know we could not see each other for 8 years, never mind 8 months, and we would just pick up where we left off.) Guffaws and cackles and inventive cocktails await. I know it will be refreshing and revievifying -- it always is.
I think there is some perverse law of the universe that dictates I feel like shit every time I have to fly somewhere. Though I suspect it might have something to do with the law of averages, since I seem to feel like shit an awful lot.
So, I love my job.
I love selling books. I love chatting with people about books. I love being around thousands of books all day. I love looking up information about books that people want. I love shelving the books that come in and discovering new books I never would have otherwise.
Also, as the person who hired me was leaving for the day, she stopped me and told me, "Everyone ADORES you." Which made me feel...incredibly wonderful.
Of course, closing tonight meant I had to vacuum, and I hate vacuuming. But it's a small price to pay.
The downside of my new office is smelling utterly and completely of stale scones and other bready baked goods. Could be worse, though.
My office smells like slightly overcooked muffins and espresso. Swarms of toddlers sometimes congregate and eye my laptop, which I can tell they want to paw with their sticky widdle chubby widdle hands. My office has two couches and excellent natural light. It also has free wireless internet. There is no boss who likes to pop by and look over my shoulder in order to catch me writing here or looking at OkCupid/MySpace/random blogs/horse pr0n instead of working. It also has no coworkers (though there are always other people working around me), which is a little lonely and sad, but perhaps that can be remedied eventually. The office managers' taste in music is excellent, and the ginger-peach muffins are outstanding.
Come over and see me sometime.
As I walked back from buying my coffee, I had the most overwhelming desire to talk to Greg.
And so I did.
As usual, it was a pretty damn good conversation, and it made me feel sad but also better.
Before I got home, I wrapped him up in the warmest, biggest hug I could imagine, and I could feel him hugging me back, in his way.
So far today, I:
Have gotten 4 hours of sleep.
Was disappointed to realize that my happy socks are dirty. (Though my slightly-less-happy socks are on my feet now. Stripes are good.)
Flirted with a teeth-achingly cute baby.
Bought some books.
Paid only 87 cents for my coffee.
Saw a guy walking down the street who looked even rougher than me. By, like, a lot. This made me feel better, but now I feel a little bad about the fact that this made me feel better.
"I feel old, and crazy, and stupid," I whispered.
"You are not old. You are not crazy. You are not stupid. And I care about you very, very much," he answered.
Sometimes I need someone to flick away the demons that bite and scratch in my head. They straggle back, invariably, but at least they are a little bedraggled, claws torn.
I have worrisome pains. I went to the doctor, and she confirmed that it did indeed hurt where I thought it hurt. Helpful.
I also left some pee, and am scheduled for another test at the hospital late this month, which I hopefully can move up to an earlier date.
It's not excruciating pain, at all, just bothersome. But it's not a place a lady wants to be hurting.
Suck.
Oh, also, before my ride, I saw a bug that looked just like this, hanging out on the side of my house right above where I propped up my bike.
S/he looked wise for some reason. (I anthropomorphize everything.) We looked at each other for a good long while.
Link fixed now
I love riding my bike. It's like flying.
I woke up early this morning and rode out to Lexington and back, almost the same route I took yesterday with my parents. The bike path this morning was quieter, less swerving around baby carriages and rollerbladers and yapping puppies and other cyclists. (And I attracted less attention alone than while riding with my parents and their crazy half-recumbent tandem. One guy even applauded as he rode by, and a few stopped to ask about the bike, which my father is always happy to go on [and on and on and on...] about.)
I raced along, Bikini Kill and The Postal Service and Neko Case in my ears. I saw skittish cats, who dove into the brush as I approached, huge clumps of ragweed, the moon in the blue sky, the weak-orange sun over the marsh in Arlington. My legs burned, the wind bit through my shirt, and stories meandered through my head. And I thought of this
And I was flying.
Last night, I rode my bike from Central to Porter. Riding my bike isn't unusual, obviously, but riding at night is. This was the first time, and I finally used my lights, the white headlighty one and the red blinky one (each given to me by some of my favorite people). It was funfun and hardly scary at all. At one point, we went through the Harvard underpass, which has a nice downhill, and it was superawesome. Whoooosh! I'm getting braver and braver about this bike-riding stuff, and that makes me happy.
I also watched Mommie Dearest last night, which was not as fun as I'd thought it might be. The last time I saw it, I was a teenager, maybe 16, and I remember enjoying its campy and scenery-chewing elements. However, now that I'm 31 and have given serious thought about having children, the perils of raising them, the lifelong effects of shitty (or even mildly clueless) parenting...not so enjoyable anymore. In fact, it was pretty horrible. Good thing I was exhausted and fell asleep halfway through.
Also, a car exploded at the end of my street last night, not too long before I sauntered by on my way to sushi.
I didn't see any detached body parts or an ambulance -- just a tow truck, fire truck, and one cop car -- so I'm assuming no one was seriously hurt.
Still, though. BOOM
My apartment is falling apart, and I think it must be sabotage.
This week, two different doorknobs have come off in my hand (thankfully after I opened the door) and one of the side shelves in the refrigerator fell to pieces, causing a shower of condiments to fall upon my flip-flop-shod foot. Ouch.
Who is the saboteur? Fess up, scoundrel!
Jane magazine used to be OK. It was almost in the same vein as the original Sassy (RIP) but, you know, for women. Smart women who like a little gossip and fashion and "It Happened to Me" voyeurism once a month. Now, it's just another shitty women's mag, and has been for a while.
This morning, I was at the CVS and espied this Jane headline:
How Classy Girls Have NAUGHTY SEX
Ugh. I don't know, just like nasty sluts do, but, uh... with their pearls on? They extend a formal invitation first, on engraved Crane notecards? And, so, is "naughty sex" inherently unclassy? What does "naughty" even mean? Butt sex? Golden showers? Threesomes? Or just anything that's not some good-ol' cervix-jackhammerin' "normal" sex? WTF???
The article is probably something fairly innocuous, and only tangentially related to this provocative headline, but still. It smacks of a fucking double standard to me (har), and that pisses me off.
I also found this headline on their web site: "Meet Sarah -- the 29-year-old virgin. Click here to watch the video, plus help chose [sic] her next date and read her blog." Insipid, insulting, and with a typo to boot! Fuckingmothersuckinggoddamnpoop!
I feel like such a dumbass this week, for so many reasons. The week's not over yet, though. I suppose things could improve.
I start my new job at the bookstore today. I am nervous. I hope I don't throw up on anyone. That would certainly start things off on the wrong foot.
Wish me luck, in not tossing my cookies and in everything else.
I have been very out of sorts lately. I wonder when I will be sorted. Soon, I hope.
I thought maybe lots and lots and lots of sleep yesterday would fix things, but it just changed the flavor of my crapitude slightly. I feel woozy and puffy. My body hurts. I kind of want to go back to bed, but that is the last thing I need.
Time to work. No such thing as a holiday when you work for yourself.
Too much stuff crammed in there, and too much abuse over the last couple of days have rendered my brain inoperable for the moment. (Relatively speaking.)
I feel like there are things I have to do, and definitely people I have to/want to talk to, but I don't know whether any of those things will happen today. Annoying, and guilt-making. But I think food and back to bed take precedence at the moment.
If anyone wants to bring me tasty food and/or a movie, however, give me a call. (So, now I am both brain-dead AND selfish. Great. Just great.)
Fjifrelpwldnfjebuh.
I had a dream this morning when I fell back asleep after my usual far-too-early just-for-practice wakeup.
I went to talk to people about work -- trying to drum up work, trying to sell myself, pointing out the merits of my services and cost-effective blah and high-quality blah. I came back, and you were working on this and that, drawing and making pretty pieces of metal and writing, switching between each endeavor quickly, flitting like a bird.
"How was the art museum?" you said.
"Oh, well, this person was truly horrible, and what a bitch, and I'm not really sure if I'll get any work from them, and..."
"Well, yes, but what about the art?"
"Oh, I didn't have time to really look at that, though I did like this Chinese painter-slash-photographer I noticed during one of my meetings," I answered, a tiny bit cross because that sounded like a criticism to me and, yes, looking at the art would have been quite nice.
"You went to the art museum and didn't look at the art?!"
"Well, no, but, look...it's...aw, hell."
And you laughed your throaty laugh, sweetly, good-naturedly, and I laughed too, and the crossness melted away. And I touched your face gently, and asked to see your drawings, and then kissed you, softly.
It's been a while. Feeling this goofy over someone. It's exciting and lovely, but... scary. I feel vulnerable, and that's uncomfortable. Risky.
But I am all about risk-taking nowadays. Let's see how how the adventure plays out. I'm up for it.
See my friend Aaron on "TV"! (He's the one with the mustache.)
Awesome.
I have finally succumbed and gotten myself a MySpace account. I find MySpace incredibly aesthetically unpleasing. It hurts my eyes and my ears. Also, I really don't need yet another timesuck. Also also, someone else already has the URL "thevieve" and they totally don't deserve it and it is, like, totally lame and disappointing.
HOWEVER, being able to finally see a picture of a certain someone with incredibly long hair (and a t-shirt that says "EARTH" on it, natch) made all the suckage totally worth it.
Totally.
Write more poetry.
Take my vitamins.
Go to yoga.
Eat breakfast at least once in a while.
Stop worrying so much.